There
is a reason we need and seem to find the bright spots in even the most
despairing of stories; it is simply that we may remain sane in the face of
senseless tragedy. The
Impossible tells a relatively hopeful story of the tsunami of December 26,
2004, that ravaged areas of southern Asia. Over
200,000 people died and over a million and a half were displaced as a result of
a series of massive ocean waves that, in some instances, were over five times
taller than the size of an average person.

The
film does not shy away from that story of utter devastation, but the focus is on
a family of tourists facing seemingly insurmountable odds to reunite. First, though, they must survive.

Director
J.A. Bayona's harrowing and emotionally stirring film tells a seemingly unlikely
but still true account of a family spending their holiday vacation at a resort
in the Khao Lak region of Thailand when the tsunami strikes. They are just one group of people in the area, including locals and
visitors who speak a range of languages and with a multitude of accents. While it might seem odd to focus a story of such regional significance on
people who do not live in said region, the effect is one of the universality of
suffering. In a disaster, the
nationality on one's passport does not matter.

The
same, though, goes for the common kindness and decency the majority of human
beings share when such unthinkable events occur, and it is from that sense of
basic humanity when confronted with adversity—above even the stunning and
dreadful scenes of the natural disaster itself and its aftermath—that the film
derives its power. It is one thing
to show the palpable misery in this horrifying scenario, but that
Bayona and screenwriter Sergio G. Sánchez manage to elicit a sensation as
overwhelming as faith in humanity in simple gestures, such as the offering of a
cell phone or a woman holding hands with a young boy who is not her son, is
something else entirely—something remarkable.

On
Christmas Eve in 2004, a family of five is about to land in Thailand (The family
of the true-life story hailed from Spain; the film turns them into British
expatriates). They are Maria (Naomi
Watts) and Henry (Ewan McGregor) and their three sons Lucas (Tom Holland),
Thomas (Samuel Joslin), and Simon (Oaklee Pendergast). Both parents are anxious about things they cannot control: Henry stews
over the possibility that he forgot to set the alarm at their house in Japan,
while Maria clutches the armrests of her seat as the plane encounters some minor
turbulence. They have time to worry
about these things; it's one of the many luxuries and privileges they take for
granted—ones they will not have in two days' time.

The
opening scenes are idyllic, with the resort's guests sending paper lanterns into
the night sky and the family recording their relaxed Christmas celebration. Fernando Velázquez' score (which does become a bit too on-the-nose much
later in the film, though not to a distracting degree and earned) is not joyful
but mourning. Even before all of
this, Bayona has set a tone of apprehension within the first moments of the
film, as a black screen holds over the sounds of faraway rushing water and
something like the intense groaning of a foundation about to break, and with an
image from the sea looking toward the beach—impassive but loaded with dread
(It reminds us of a subjective shot from the killer's point of view in a horror
movie).

The
tsunami hits in the mid-morning when the family is at the pool. A strong breeze blows a page from Maria's book into a window. Birds
begin to fly inland. A low, gradual
rumbling begins to shake the ground. The
first glimpse is terrifying, with trees knocked down before the waves splash
into the air from their impact on the surroundings. Maria, pinned against the glass, can only close her eyes.

The
sequence that follows is a virtuoso exercise in controlled chaos. It starts from Maria's viewpoint—nothing but a black screen, the
muffled sounds of water surrounding us, and flashes of light. As she and we become adjusted to her situation, Bayona and
cinematographer Óscar Faura maintain three perspectives: an occasional overhead
shot to take in the vast ruin and tracking shots of Maria and Lucas that follow
them as they drift through the violent current, both above- and underwater. Every abrupt impact with debris is palpable; every flash of some horror
in the background—a dead body or the living crying out in agony—stings (The
camera breaks its routine to follow a van, out of which Lucas hears a baby
crying; as a second unstoppable surge of water approaches it, the camera seems
to recoil in terror to the overhead shot).

Eventually,
Maria and Lucas are safe. The film
follows them to a local hospital, where Maria, herself a doctor and aware of how
grave her situation could turn, waits for medical attention for a wounded leg
and Lucas—upon his mother's instruction to do "anything" for the
other people there—begins to try to reunite separated families (After some
confusion, he winds up in a makeshift tent, where temporarily or permanently
orphaned children wait in limbo). The
film reunites us with Henry, who must make an unbearable decision between the
known and the unknown, and the path of the rest of the story seems set in stone.

It's
what Bayona and Sánchez do once the course is set that begins the process of
subverting the emotional progression of the story. As Henry searches, he encounters reminders of others who will, in the
end, be less fortunate than himself. A
man (Sönke Möhring) who lost his family eventually accompanies Henry. At a key moment, Bayona cuts back to him; the scene he is witnessing
serving as a reminder for what he's lost. It
forces us to consider him and how many like him were not as lucky as the family
we've been following. As things
settle, the camera stays back from the central subject, occupying the foreground
with people checking names of the dead and body bags on the ground.

The
dichotomy of thought—a sort of intentional cognitive dissonance—that Bayona
creates with the juxtaposition of the two stories—the family's and those in
the background—puts the entirety of this story in the proper context. The end focuses as much on what has been left behind as the survivors
(Watts' final look perfectly conveys the conflict)—the name of an unknown
woman written on an arm, a sticker that recalls parentless children, and an
innocent note that became a haunting farewell. The central story of The Impossible
may help us stay sane, but the film acknowledges it could never make sense of
anything so horrible.